


Labyrinthine

by ARandomRock



Category: Yu-Gi-Oh! Duel Monsters (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Both ANime and Manga Canon, Canon-Typical Violence, Flashbacks, Fluff and Angst, Found Family, Mentions of Death, Post canon, Shadow Realm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-23
Updated: 2020-09-23
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:13:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26608816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ARandomRock/pseuds/ARandomRock
Summary: The endless shadow realm, thick clouds and shifting mazes. Trying to find each other's souls in the constant walls, dead ends and sheer drops is tiring, hopeless, not even to even know if there is anyone else in the shadow realm.  Three souls that found each other continue their trek through the shadow realm to find the others. Each recalling why they are there, their interactions, their memories when they were still known as "Ghouls".
Kudos: 1





	Labyrinthine

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was included in a small side PDF for a zine that got dropped. It's illustrated with with extra Shadow Realm art made using fractals, painting and photoshop.   
> You can buy it for $1 here: https://gum.co/EqFLz
> 
> Daily reminder that I love Pandora.

Looking out and through the small cracks and translucent illusions of the endless maze, small fragments of those who had once passed could be seen. From ancient Egyptians condemned to the pool of fog to even some snippets of the future, where those who fell from grace were consumed by the clouds. Each of these small breakings of the walls were a delight, even if it showed the misery of others stuck, as it was a connection to the world the group once knew. For, if you were to look through the windows of the once so-called hideout, all you’d see is a slightly eccentric young man trying to strike gold. No different from everyone else who moved to battle city armed with something akin to this dream. Whether to find fame, to etch their names in history, for money to support their loved ones or to challenge one’s craft. Peering into the central district’s hideout where all the squads would collate, there’d be very little to match the Ghouls’ fearsome reputation. Each armed with their own mission, bondage and deck, the Golden thread which stitched their egos together would eventually become something different. With one of their main comrades over their shoulder, the memories of sorting through winnings was a warmth that kept their walk ahead. 

* * *

In the penthouse you’d see all their offices and workstations, each working on their stacks of cards with whatever the newest of winnings were. Visits from the counterfeiting team and Card Shop Owner, made those evenings sweeter. Pushing up his glasses so the sunset’s rays would catch them through the glass doors, he’d spin the trunk around for Ghouls’ Finest. Vulturous hands would claw through the packets and small scale squabbles would break out when it came to combinations. Eventually they would laugh it off and when Pantomimer at the break his pose and edit his own deck, the family would be satisfied. Marking off the next week's targets based on who brought what, passing over the counterfeit cards to be exchanged for points. Business would be concluded with the boasting of each other’s scores both tournament legal and illegal, and the shuffling of decks. For the tallest man whose mask held what little remained together, he’d split his deck and weave the cards one by one back together without a single spillage. The eldest hunter of the group would shuffle his “hounds” top down instead, feathering his bottom hand fingers out every time he pulled a packet from the middle of the deck out and up. The pair of Masks would spiral between the deck and table, alternating and discussing if all eighty cards were almost one deck together. This ritual was a sign that despite their robes, colours and debt being from Master Marik, they each had their own proof of existence.

* * *

Stopping, as a dead end of the endless dull purple walls opened up, the hunchback eldest dropped his comrade on the floor. Holding onto the side of the wall, he looked out at the endless purple mazes that curled into each other over and over again. Pulsating reds and blues could be seen between the prisons with purple fog rolling endlessly. Behind him, kneeling down the bald youngest man was tending to the passed out comrade, gently poking him, in his hand still holding his hat before it fell into the void. The body stirred a ittle and the Puppet pulled the Magician’s ponytail under him for comfort. Scanning the horizon of the endless maze, the Seeker turned around to his companions but struggled for words. They were exhausted and while he could continue alone, and his ego would allow him to do so without guilt, there was something more needed. This endless realm of shadows and darkness would consume anyone who did not have some small thread to the waking world, and these were his. 

* * *

Battle City was filled with enough life and tourists that for the lower ranks of petty thieves, grandstanding duels with the latest KaibaCorp holograms would pull in crowds like traditional sports once did. Rare Hunter believed truly that this hunt and show was the finest dining of the dueling sport. As one who rejected the supernatural found within Industrial Illusions’s original myths, it was his own strength to perform that made him win. Stalling and drawing for Exodia was no different than the Magician’s faro shuffling to know exactly how his deck ran to win. He had watched the King of Game’s own grandstanding, not once did it ever occur to him to tinker with a power far beyond his time. The rarest of cards, hounds to tear their opponents to dust before coughing up their trophies, the King of Games knew exactly how to draw an entire city. This was what Rare Hunter had wished for and when he saw the excuse and responsibility go up in the air with the Ghouls, he was like a moth to a flame. When he cornered the friend of the King and hunted down his prey with Exodia’s arms, the Red Eyes Black Dragon in his hand was a juicy steak. A trophy proudly proclaimed in front of both the lower and upper Ghouls. Something that he delivered to Master Marik as a sign of his own strength, so when given permission to keep the card, a man’s heart could burn no brighter. Of course the Magician would talk about the thrill and the magic of illusions and delusions because that was this one’s job, but they needed tools, trickery, not strength. Same as for the Puppet, whose Mind control was merely an excuse for the unhinged. Some were slaves toThus Rare Hunter’s bondage to their leader was simply that of hunger and ego, something that he had thought was reflecting in his Boss, but oh how wrong he was. Oh how very wrong he was.

* * *

The Hunter was half asleep himself, lost in a snarl of memories by the time the Magician had regained his strength. Clutching his face, the whites of eyes were redden with soreness, trying to piece together what was left of his mind. Looking around at the outside of the dead end, rotating his legs around to dangle off the side. Pantomimer gripped the back of his collar with widened hollow eyes, but a raised hand from the Magician eased the grip. Dusting off his hat over the pit, 

“Every vista is the same, to the point it almost makes me laugh. No magician's box has ever felt so cramped and silent as this entire world does.”

The Hunter responded with a dismissive wave and leaned his head up at the pulsatting clouds above them.

“We ain’t gonna find yer bird or the masks...let alone that Marik...”

Snapping up the Magician gripped the chain that held the cloak around the Hunter and gripped him, drilling into him that if he mentions his beloved one more time, the Magician would create a new level of hell. The Puppet’s hand reached for the pair but with all three parties both drained and weakened, they returned to simply wallowing in pity on the labyrinth floor. It was only when the Magician threw out a cry of a name to the void that they heard a call back.

* * *

“Hello,” The first voice chimed.

“Can you hear us?” The second deeper baritone yelled.

* * *

Putting the radio behind his mask and confirming his position, Pandora the Conjurer gave a long wave from underneath the skylight at the bottom of the building. Heading up the elevator to rejoin the rest of the team, examining both the double packs he was holding. Ever since what had happened, his due diligence when it came to acts had increased to a level where it began to annoy the other members. It was no different when they greeted him on the roof top with bemoans of being overly worried. Lifting up the back of the shorter man’s hood, Pandora considered removing his mask to show them the harm overconfidence could do, but their stakes with his bomb trick were far beyond mere burning. 

“It is not like we are going to lose, either!” The awaiting stumper man with half a mask in white chimed.

“Like the sun and moon we cannot be stopped!” The Mask of Darkness followed suit, straightening his back just enough that Pandora fumbled the strap. Heading over to attach the other parachute, the Mask of Light brought up a sore question.

“So who is your partner, Pandora?”

“A magician needs an assistant.” The Mask of Darkness continued but the implications made him catch a sharp look from the other half. Pandora himself was struck still and winces, every bit of his body aches from just merely scraping the surface. Only by repeating Master Marik’s offer over and over again like a mantra was he able to finish disguising the parachutes within the robes. 

“Everyone does not need to be present for a dress rehearsal, no?”

Swallowing with a sigh the pair of Masks bumped their fist together and mocked the King of Games with impressions of previous events. Pandora’s Mask and bowtie had gained shades of green in the pair’s performance. It made him question Marik just for a second, that there might be a way... The soft warming hand of Marik’s invasion soothed his aching soul but kept a firm hand around it. Scoffing at them, he wondered if the Masks truly knew how little either him or Marik truly cared. They were purple plain robed pawns like the tens of others in their ranks, not given anything special, money or even a special card to help them. They would be sacrificed as bait within seconds of them coming close to defeat. That’s exactly what Pandora’s conclusion was at this entire game he had helped set up. The parachutes in case of a loss, were not even the Master’s idea, a simple request. To Pandora’s charred eyes, both men were missing something dearly and would fight to the death for it, but did not understand they were the thing to be discarded. As were the Masks now playing bait and rehearsing for their own battle in the future, be it against the King Of Games or the King in the tower.

* * *

At the bottom of the tower of mazes, where the voices had come from, The Hunter and Magician had leaned over, The Puppet’s endless, unwillingly commitment to being a statue anchoring them down. They had found and connected with the other members of the upper echelon of Marik’s toys, which he chucked at the Pharaoh back when they were “alive”. The Hunter had proposed that, even if Time moved slower in this realm, the main “realm” would’ve considered them dead regardless, something that The Magician remarked was already the case for both him and the Puppet. Both Masks seemed to be much lesser spirits than the main group whose bickering became such a regular part of their penance, that it gave them some sort of life. 

“There is a bridge across to the green side, three levels down.” The smaller Mask of Light responded, attempting to vaguely correct his hair now that he was in the presence of other humans.

“That’s...five up for us...” Broken coughing came from the Mask of Darkness whose face was longer and more tired than the Hunter’s at this point. Pulling up his hood, he pointed over to the many bridges that connected the various spheres of mazes that stretched endlessly in the purple void.

Pulling up off the edge, the trio then had to pick whether to meet the others or not. They had “no” sitting and stirring on their tongues but after exasperated sighs and a lack of challenge, there was a silent majority to keep moving. For the Masks below it was rather an instant agreement. For one, they had knowledge about other people? Spirits? Lost wandered they had spotted or seen? Unlike the trio above their time in the maze was filled with sorrow more than vengeance. Without technology or cards to communicate with, there was some vague feeling that needed to be aired and straightened out. The taller Mask did not see the surrender or sorrow of his partner, nor did the smaller Mask hear the forgiveness as he fell. The balance between their partnership and how they came with being two halves of a whole had become a burden that started to grow. As the dirty laundry of regrets was aired, the washing line was becoming too heavy to continue. Reaching that bridge and the rest of the upper Ghouls would be something different, different nostalgia to draw upon for strength. As all the months of bickering between each other over simple mistakes or miscalculations were aired, each one became another anecdote to be inscribed across the walls. 

* * *

The graffiti spread across the warehouse wall, rats scarpered away as the sound of footsteps running chased the cloaks of purple. Blue uniformed men followed the cracks around the alleyways before one became pincered between two mask-wearing Ghouls. Examining over the unconscious body, the Mask of Light stayed true to his name and stacked the torch up on some trash so the light went into the street. The Mask of Darkness took the radio and buzzed the local channel to ping the other investigating officer. It wasn’t long before they took apart the Kaibacorp security officials, and with them, the recovery of stolen cards and sub-tournament prizes. One careless lower Ghoul’s mistake had turned into the Mask’s own dual victories. Tapping the sides of their duel disks together, the two halves vanished before dawn broke to turn in their work. Of course this whole situation started because their bickering led to the screw up, but that was their deep friendship. They’d yell, whine and blame each other, but it was a part of a stepping stone to rectify their problem. Master Marik’s hand could see that, and eased his grip on them when it came to plans, because their balance resonated within him. Perhaps their dear leader needed balance themselves? None of this was supernatural in their eyes though, as much as they’d act like it, but a performance of what they believed in. It gave them an otherworldly taste, a certain type of fear when facing off against a couple for their rare cards as they tore a relationship apart by using their secret headsets to freign telepathic knowledge. Passing over a reclaimed trap card to his partner, the Mask of Light and the Mask of Darkness cruised along the side of the harbour where the land and the ocean met. They were a man of the back row and a man of the front row. A man of the sea and a man of the land. Pulling the car over after the Mask of Darkness pointed out a man shuffling his deck, overlooking the ocean. What started off as a mere gimmick to cover each other’s weakness was now a natural bond. As the Mask of Light distracted the duelist with a challenge, the Mask of Darkness crept up behind...and that was their victory that needed no artifact stolen from a museum to achieve.

* * *

Well, by the time they were cruising along the bridge between the void and the labyrinth, they had even abandoned the need for secret technology or their gimmick. The taller Mask had posed that the empty bridge over the void gave him nostalgia for the sea. Countering, the rounder Mask snapped that they’d been sick even just overseeing shipments at the harbor, that he missed the small bridges over highways where tourists would have photos of the KaibaCorp building. It appeared then, that The Masks were simply themselves and now seemingly eternally trapped to bicker, and upon seeing the rest of the Ghouls a jib was shared between them. Only for a small jab between them to make them shut up and maybe try to be nice. 

“No masks, but the bickering continues. Almost refreshing in a place like this.”

The Hunter’s voice was eclipsed by the bald, studded head appearing from under his cape to shape his hands into a heart and smile at both the Masks. The Hunter dumped the passed-out again Magician on the arc of the bridge. The Puppet’s head wiggled left to right and he spoke a coherent sentence.

* * *

_ “Thank you.” _

* * *

The time Pantomimer said thank you, was one incident that did make Rare Hunter believe Pandora’s warning. While he was still entirely dismissive off this supernatural mind control, and claimed that the god card used by Pantomimer was one of the counterfeiting side’s masterworks there, it was no surprise to any of the upper Ghouls that Marik’s Doll sent more shudders down all their spines. Even the rumoured history of Pantomimer made his whole demeanor a little more sinister, nobody wanting to ask Master Marik if it was true, but Pandora reasoned it would be true. After all, Master Marik wouldn’t trust one of the most important cards to anyone he couldn’t maintain a constant grip on. Yet that wasn’t entirely true either, on his adventures out with Pantomimer. 

For Rare Hunter, he preferred to be the one causing the crowd when possible, so when Pantomimer attracted a crowd at the park, it began to irk him. On some days, the crowd would gather enough that the open bag on the floor was collecting more donations than a guitarist busking on the Domino City line. Regardless, there was still a bond between the hunter clause. Bond was perhaps stretching it, but when a crowd of teenagers decided to stop donating and start thieving, Pantomimer’s head had twitched just slightly enough that Rare Hunter had clocked on what was going on. Clotheslining the biggest of the bunch, Rare Hunter had railed a fist into the biggest delinquent, another youth had taken a chain-wrapped fist towards Rare Hunter, whose face turned into a smirk, unlocking his duel disk as a shield. Yet...was stopped by two hands gripping around the delinquent’s neck.

There with both hands wrapped around the last youth’s throat, Pantomimer held on tightly and was lifting him up to the point that his flailing legs nearly hit his comrade. 

“This man’s a monster! Boss get up!”

Dragging the biggest youth up and running away, tripping over his own feet, Rare Hunter barked orders at Pantomimer to drop the delinquent and the Puppet’s head turned smoothly and softly with the drop. The body went still for a second, but the struggle and gasp for air afterwards gave a relief to Rare Hunter. Pantomimer’s head turned but...there was no...funky little glowing mark on his head. In fact, for one of the rare times the Puppet appeared to be blinking.

* * *

_ “Thank you” _

* * *

  
The Magician greeted the other Mask-wearers with a wary voice, but seeing The Puppet tug at the robes of them, eased him into a smile. All five of them stood on that bridge, reunited in the otherworldly silence. Not a word was yet spoken as the clouds of purple and pink flowed endlessly underneath them. There was something, just something intoxicating as a team pulled together, all unified by one thing: No the defeat by the Pharaoh, but their ignorance surrounding Marik. 

“Who would’ve guessed?” The taller mask chimed.

“That a card game would lead us here?” The smaller mask continued.

The Seeker had bundled his cape on the floor and in a small campsite of the bridge, the five members pulled together what they had learned and seen. Stitching together a timeline of what happened between each of their departures from the original world, sadness wore across their faces, pained with gallows humour to stomach what happened. Their realisation was dawning on them, bit by bit as the labyrinthine threads of their golden stitches had begun to weave into a full picture of their eventual defeat. The Hunter and the Masks bonded at their original shared anger towards their old leader, but it had begun to fade away, since the Pharaoh's words struck with them, now in a clearer mind. They had been shown kindness, but not been able to recognize it. For The Magician, seeing the kindness of Rare Hunter putting his cloak over the sleeping Puppet, began to tie his mistakes. His willingness to throw away every pawn like a mirror of Marik was ultimately his downfall. The Magician looked over the edge to the void before standing up on the side of the wall that edged over, with arms spread out, each finger equally asplaid like how he once greeted a crowd. Lifting his hat off and taking a bow, he threw his hat to the void. With a deep sigh of relief as he had retracted his hands to the back of his head and untied the clasp of his mask...and simply let go…

* * *

As the saw blade trickled down with his life points, there was a sense of fear but also a want to cling to life and hope. No vengeance, or jealousy for a brief section of clarity where Marik’s Illusions were dispelled. In the sheer ecstasy of panic and terror, Pandora had a drive once more. To find Catherine or a way out, the final show had to be done with his own hands.

As Pantomimer drew his last card and decked out, there was a small gap where he understood the Pharaoh's words. In the moment when Patomimer woke up in the park, unbeknownst to all that had gone on, the breeze had never felt cooler. Before his loose end was tied, the colours of the world had never seemed so deeply vibrant, and the guilt for what he had done in the past was a tight bondage. To atone, to pull his mind together, was for him to take, and a burden for him to drag into the Shadow Realm.

As Rare Hunter was tossed aside, now eaten by the very same forbidden card he had once used to eat through the decks of others, there was a slow burn of realisation. In all his hunting, he was aided by the supernatural powered Marik, whose Millennium Item gave him the extra strategy, who controlled his movements. Every spark of inspiration he had to turn a tide was now taken away and no matter how much he cursed as his consciousness slipped, his ego could not die.

As the Mask of Light plummeted, even with the parachute, the thought of the distance between him and his partner broke the ties that Marik had kept them in. What was the point of the greed, the cards and risking their life? To die a dog separately when they had hunted as a pack together. As the Mask of Darkness surrendered, any fear he had of Marik’s Retribution was replaced with a longing for his steady. Truly if the Shadow Realm was real, then they would walk it together.

* * *

There was no splash or sound as the mask and hat fell into the void. As each of the five Ghouls looked onwards to the endless shadowy sea, the group pulled together in their reds and purples. Hands, overlaid in the middle, they swore that they were each themselves, and this was their chance at a new life in the realm of darkness. Free from Marik, free from the cards, and the history, and magic. As all five renewed their vows to find what they were looking for, or a way out, a cry came echoing down from somewhere in the endless labyrinth. Their eyes looked up at the twists and turns of the endless maze. The Puppet, whose endless strength and statue would pull them from traps.

The Magician, whose tricks of the trade would dispel all illusions of the shadow realm.

The Seeker, whose strength and keen senses would guide them to the next member.

The Masks, whose tandem diplomacy would plan out the solutions.

* * *

They had another soul to meet and add to the party.

In the soul-death of the Shadow Realm they had found themselves.

Eternity was a long time to figure out the rest, or even a way out.

For now, they had a history to write for themselves.

Just this once.

  
  



End file.
